


It's Good to See You

by LilyOrchard, MikailaT



Series: Anevay Darkflare - Horde Champion [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loneliness, Post-World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26656138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyOrchard/pseuds/LilyOrchard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikailaT/pseuds/MikailaT
Summary: Returning home from Northrend, the Horde Champion finds herself feeling adrift. Her fame has rendered her unable to make a connection with her fellow Sin'dorei stick, and the loneliness coupled with not knowing exactly where to go from here threatens to send her over the edge.
Series: Anevay Darkflare - Horde Champion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939501
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	It's Good to See You

**Year 28 - Shortly After the Death of the Lich King**

The ride back to Silvermoon from the Lordaeron docks was quiet. The Plaguelands, and the Ghostlands that they led into, were still of almost all life save for the shuffling of the occasional corpse. The closest thing to words spoken was to the occasional Forsaken or Sin’dorei guard on their patrols. The news hadn’t yet quite sunk in for Azeroth, but for Anevay it was all she could think about.

The Lich King was dead.

She felt almost like a ghost in her own body the more she thought about it. There was a sense of dread as she drew closer to Silvermoon City, as if she would rather be back in Icecrown than home. As if she would rather be anywhere but home. 

She pulled Skash’ka to a stop and pulled off her gauntlet. Looking at her hand, she cringed at the wound in her palm from where she’d caught Frostmourne’s blade before it could end her life. The deep cut had completely blackened and spread out from the wound like a burn. Black streaks ran down her forearm from where her blood had frozen and burned into her skin. She’d had the wound looked over by everyone, but eventually Sylvanas had told her that it was impossible to heal.

She was not looking forward to wearing gauntlets for the rest of her life. Of course, she looked forward to the permanent reminder of her harrowing experience even less. The memories of her exhausting, horrific and perfectly traumatic duel with Arthas was now forever seared into her flesh. Any hopes to drink the frightening images away were thoroughly dashed. The blackened skin and the ever present pain it throbbed with would bring those memories back plain as day. She had slain the man that quite literally took everything from her and all that was left to fill the emptiness left behind was terrifying nightmares. 

True, the fact that Anevay brought about his end and how she was treated to the sight of his slow pitiful death offered its catharsis. However, that was a fleeting moment compared to the emptiness she now felt. A task that she was fully prepared to devote the rest of her life to was in fact completed within little over a decade. In that time, she recovered next to nothing of her old life. Those of her friends and family that did not perish to the Scourge became Forsaken. A faction of the Horde that wanted absolutely nothing to do with Anevay, saying that they could never trust one of the living. To know that the people you love are almost within your grasp but forever out of reach… it is truly hell.

Anevay sighed and rode Skash’ka through the gates of Silvermoon. It was quiet. Everyone was still settling in, and those who hadn’t were still absorbing the news. Word of exactly who killed Arthas had yet to reach their ears, and Anevay was grateful for that. The celebration after she prevented Kil’jaeden from seizing the Sunwell and its subsequent rebirth had seen her swarmed for over a week straight by people who viewed her as a hero. Such a title, which was thrust upon her against her will, made forming new connections among her kin damn near impossible. No matter how hard she tried, be it on dates or general social gatherings, her fellow Sin’dorei either refused to not look at her from the pedestal they put her on, or made a hasty retreat when they realized she didn’t live up to whatever idea of her they made up in her head. All that after one act of heroism.

This? This was going to be so much worse.

She checked Skash’ka in with a Stable Master and immediately hurried home before anyone could see her. She had maybe twelve hours tops before everyone knew. She bounded up the stairs toward her apartment and shut the door behind her, sliding to the floor and burying her face in her arms.

“Now what?” she asked bitterly to nobody. Barring herself, her apartment was empty. It had always been empty since she acquired it. She would never set foot in her childhood house, no matter how much anyone insisted. The home she and Alina, her former fiance, had made with each other rotted away in the ruins of Windrunner Village. 

Therefore, all that was left was this one apartment that she had no ties to. Where the only memories that lingered were those of her present, ever growing loneliness. No friends or family to come home to. No pets to greet her, either. Skash’ka couldn’t fit anywhere that wasn’t the stables and with how often she could spend away from home, acquiring any other kind of pet would be irresponsible. It was all she could do to just be alone. 

She slowly pulled herself to her feet and made her way to the liquor cabinet. In her current state, Anevay was something of an alcoholic. She never drank before battle, but whenever she wasn’t deployed she would practically guzzle entire bottles of wine. Or rather, Orcish beer, which she’d come to appreciate more.

She poured herself a mug and slouched down on the nearby armchair. The apartment was very sparsely furnished, just enough to sleep and eat and that was it. As she drank her beer, she glanced around and found herself ruminating on the same question.

“Now what?”

* * *

A week had passed and the celebrations in Silvermoon were already rampaging through the streets. Sin’dorei everywhere were cheering the death of the Lich King and the vengeance of Silvermoon. Spirits were high, everyone was happy, and a statue of Anevay breaking Frostmourne was being commissioned by the Spire.

Anevay groaned when she heard that.

It was all she could do to dissuade Lor’themar from building a statue after the way she stopped Kil’jaeden. This would be something that he would refuse to budge on. Saying how ‘we must ensure our actions echo through eternity for the sake of our descendents. As if her battle with Arthas wasn’t, in fact, something that she wished to forget. 

Anevay seldom went outside unless she was on patrol or needed to go to the market. On both such occasions she was predictably swamped by Silvermoon citizens who were just dying to be within proximity of ‘The Avenger of Quel’Thalas.’ The first time she heard that ‘title’, she thought she would puke. All that label did was amplify the behavior she was already accustomed with to an absurd degree. Folks were more interested in her presence rather than her company. Any words she spoke fell on deaf ears save the ones her fanatics wanted to hear. No social interaction felt especially engaging or emotionally fulfilling. It made it virtually impossible to form new connections with her kin, as she tried to explain profusely to her stubborn psylosopher.

“Fame isn’t helping me, it’s just hurting me!” Anevay finally yelled at the old man sat across from her. “I’ve tried! I’ve tried everything you said, and it. Is. Not. Working!” She fell back against the chair in his office and covered her hands with her mouth to muffle a shrill scream.

“You’re expecting the results to manifest too quickly, Lady Darkflare,” the psylosopher huffed as he placed his parchment aside, not feeling the need to take more notes. “You’re setting your expectations too high for your starstruck kin. It will take some time for them to look past the title and see the real you. You just need to give them that chance and bear the growing pains.”

“And what happens when the next war comes and I’m called to fight there as well? Do you think I’m ever going to be free of this? We had four different wars in Northrend alone! The Scourge, Yogg Saron, Malygos and the Alliance!” Anevay growled. “I can’t keep living like this forever! I…”

She slumped onto the chair and stared down at the floor as she considered the thought that just cropped into her mind. This was just a Silvermoon problem when she thought about it. She’d been called to Orgrimmar exactly once and everyone was rather muted toward her. Likely from Garrosh taking credit for killing the Lich King over there. And the ship back to Lordaeron the Forsaken had managed to strike up a conversation with her on a few occasions.

“...Maybe I should just leave Quel’Thalas. Seek a better life elsewhere,” she sighed.

“Then you would just be running away from your problems,” the old man tutted. “You can’t expect to just start fresh somewhere else and not expect the issues you refuse to fix cause problems for you elsewhere.”

“What do you mean ‘refuse to fix’?” Anevay balked. “I can’t just stop being famous!”

“Your unwillingness to commit and help guide people past their perceptions of you will only continue to stand in the way of any meaningful connections,” he said matter of factly. “So long as you remain a capable soldier, your reputation will only follow you.”

“Well then maybe I’m better off going to Orgrimmar and mingling with the Orcs?” Anevay suggested. “Being a capable soldier is practically their entire culture. Maybe there I’ll just be normal.”

“And will you just give up the moment an orc treats you in a way you don’t like?” the psylosopher asked with an unconvinced tone. “They may not revere you as a hero, but they’ll likely ogle you like a piece of meat.”

“Oh please, I spent a lot of time around the Orcs in Northrend, and they were more impressed by how hard I could punch than my hips,” Anevay rolled her eyes, glancing out the window. “Actually now that I think about it, I got along with the Orcs and the Forsaken better than my own kin…”

“Such fanatical escapism will not solve the root of your problems, Lady Darkflare,” the psylospher frowned. “Only your fellow Sin’dorei can truly understand you and the hardships you face. You simply have to give them a chance and commit. 

There was a slight chime that turned the man’s attention to his end table where a freshly spent hourglass rang with it’s enchanted alarm. 

“Well, that’s our time. I would recommend that you schedule your next appointment after some genuine progress has been made. Lest we have this counterproductive back and forth again.”

Anevay said nothing, only stood up and marched out of the psylosopher’s office, the heavy clunk of her plate boots echoing down the hall. She had no intention of coming back. Everything she said was only met with ‘just do it again’ and all of her potentially productive solutions were met with dismissals.

“Typical Silvermoon arrogance,” she muttered. Then her eyes widened and she slapped her palm against her face. “Dammit! Now I’m sounding like Marris!”

She stepped out into the city and was immediately beset with one of the last voices she wanted to hear.

“Anevay!” came the voice of Lyrin Meadowbriar.

Anevay groaned. Lyrin was a pompous, arrogant toerag who her mother saw fit to try and sell her to as a child. She’d been betrothed to Lyrin against her will pretty much from the moment she was born, and only escaped those plans when she joined the Farstriders, much to the chagrin of both Lyrin and her mother.

“Meadowbriar,” she rolled her eyes, thankful she wore full plate almost everywhere these days. “What do you want?”

“I was just hoping to have a moment of your time,” he said, that same sleazy smile she remembered spreading across his detestable features. “You’ve been a tricky woman to track down since the celebrations started.” 

“Good,” Anevay scoffed. “Why do you even want to speak to me? We haven’t spoken since I joined the Farstriders.”

“Exactly!” Lyrin exclaimed. “It’s been too long. And so much has changed since then! I wanted to know if you could spare an evening so that the both of us can catch up.”

“But we aren’t friends, Lyrin,” Anevay frowned. “I joined the Farstriders specifically to escape you.”

“Now, now,” Meadowbriar tutted condescendingly. “Don’t be so quick to judge based on outdated information. Gone is the stingy and lecherous Lyrin Meadowbriar of the past. I am now a more charitable Lyrin! Shirt off your back Lyrin! I’ve made a great effort to turn my life around after the Fall and I wished to let you reap the rewards of that change.” 

Anevay sighed and rolled her eyes. Not like she had anything else to do the rest of the day. “Alright, I’ll bite. But not an evening. Let’s just… I don’t know, take a walk or something.”

“I’m agreeable to that,” Lyrin said, his grin widening. “It is a lovely day out.” 

Anevay managed to resist a scoff as she decided to let him direct the path. They soon found themselves walking through the bazaar. She did the best she could to ignore the stares and gasps that came as they passed by citizens. 

“You’ve certainly gained quite the reputation among our people,” Lyrin said with a laugh. “I must say, you’re nothing like the girl I first met all those years ago. I’m impressed, Anevay.”

“Yeah killing monsters will do that. It’s my job, I’ve been doing it since I was twenty.” Anevay said dismissively as she avoided eye contact with everyone who gasped at her as a thought she hadn’t considered occurred to her. “Oh… did I give Sylvanas’ bow back? ...Yes, I’m pretty sure I did.” 

“Give it back? How can you-” Lyrin cut himself off with a slight wince. “...Ah, that’s right. She’s one of those undead… folk. Isn’t she?”

“Forsaken Queen,” Anevay explained. “She was in Northrend as well. I borrowed her bow for the assault on Icecrown, I just couldn’t remember if I gave it back or not.”

“...I see,” Lyrin nodded, making an effort not to let his face contort in disgust. Alas, it wasn’t an especially good attempt. “You have to feel bad for those people, you know,” he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t wish undeath upon my worst enemy. They have to just bear it. Brave souls, I’ll tell you that.”

“I spoke with a lot of them in Northrend, they seemed sociable enough,” Anevay shrugged, glancing at a passing cat. “Nice people. They were really energized about taking the fight to Arthas. I think an apothecary flirted with me, actually.”

Lyrin let out a nervous laugh, suddenly not as overbearingly close to Anevay as he was a moment ago. “You, uh… you turned it- him down, right?”

“Her, and I was busy with three different battlefields,” Anevay explained with another shrug. “Maybe I should send her a letter. Lucy I think her name was. Actually now that I think about it, an Orc woman flirted with me too.”

Another bout of nervous laughter came from Lyrin. “Hehe… you sure about that?” he asked. “I mean, with all those muscles and tusks, how can you tell from man and woman?”

“The breasts and voice are a dead giveaway,” Anevay scoffed, turning a glare to Lyrin. “I’m muscular too, smartass.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are!” Lyrin said, suddenly raising two open palms in a conceding manner. “ I have no doubt that you’ve put on some muscle over the years. You know… tastefully muscular and all that.”

Anevay was about ready to just walk off in the other direction, having already seen for herself that Lyrin was the same old arrogant sleazebag he’d been for as long as she could remember. But then an idea struck her. An idea that made her smile for the first time in four weeks. She unlatched her left gauntlet and pulled it off, making a show of casually inspecting her palm and forearm. 

“Ugh, I’m going to need more painkillers for this.”

Meadowbriar nearly leapt out of his skin when he looked upon the blackened flesh on Anevay’s arm. “Anar’Alah!” he cursed, his voice cracking harshly. “What is that!?”

“Hmm?” Anevay asked, looking up. She smirked internally when she saw Lyrin staring at her arm. “Oh, I grabbed Frostmourne by it’s blade. It messed up my hand pretty badly. It’s mostly surface wounds, though. Frostburns and the like. I can still use it.”

“It’s hideous!” He balked, his stomach already churning at the sight. “Can’t you like, have something done about it? Get some correctional surgery? Or put a glamourie over it or something?” He took another pace back, trying his best not to look directly at it.

“Tried all kinds of healing, none of them worked. Not even the Forsaken could do anything about it, which on reflection I should have seen coming. Sylvanas has frostburns on her face, and if she could fix that she definitely would have by now,” Anevay sighed as she fastened her glove back on. “Surgery would cause nerve damage and make it less mobile.”

“Well, yes, but it would at least be less unsightly,” Lyrin argued. “Can’t imagine you’ll be able to settle down with anyone with something like that!”

Anevay turned a perplexed look to Lyrin and raised an eyebrow. “Lyrin, lots of people have battle scars. Lots of people have nasty battle scars. The only thing it’s going to do is filter out the shallow, superficial women from my hypothetical dating pool.”

“Well maybe in Orgrimmar or… wherever the hell those Foragers live,” Lyrin scoffed. “But not here in Silvermoon! Even the most battle hardened Farstriders don’t look so abhorrent!”

“Okay, first of all, it’s Forsaken,” Anevay deadpanned, a vividly unimpressed expression on her face. “Secondly, I see no problem with either of those options. Even if the women here are that shallow, that just means I have options elsewhere.” 

“But-” Lyrin bristled, his jaw clenched in a way that was clearly uncomfortable. He took a moment to try and reign in his knee jerk outrage to put on a clearly strained smile. “Are you… sure you want to be so far away from your home? From the people who revere you like you were Belore herself?”

“Honestly I don’t much care for the reverence,” Anevay shrugged as she kept her eyes on the horizon. “If I have to leave Quel’Thalas to get away from it, then maybe I should.”

“But why would you want to do that?” Lyrin asked, sounding a hint hysterical at this point. “I mean… Do you realize how soon you could retire with the reputation you have here? Honestly, after everything you’ve done, I don’t think you’d ever have to work, much less fight, ever again.” 

“But I like fighting. I love being a soldier. I’ve loved it ever since I started doing it sixty years ago,” Anevay argued. “What I don’t like is the fame getting in the way of making new connections with others, as it has done for the last six. It’s made my life rather lonely since the Fall.”

Lyrin blinked, the discomfort on his face falling almost immediately. There was a definite sparkle in his eye just then. An easily recognizable and detestable sparkle. The sparkle of opportunity. 

“...Well, I mean, if forming new connections is really a problem for you,” he began, skirting a little closer to Anevay. “...There are always old connections you can go back to. Old connections that are most certainly still interested.”

“All my sisters are Forsaken, Lyrin. They don’t actually trust the living outside of a few outliers,” Anevay pursed her lips and frowned. “I tried old connections. They failed. Even Alina rejected me.”

“Well, there might still be some connections you haven’t tried yet,” he mused with an air of innocence, inching a little closer to Anevay. “One that might be closer than you think.”

Anevay’s eyes widened as Lyrin’s meaning caught on and she stepped back from him. “You mean you? Lyrin, I’ve hated your guts since I was twelve. And I wasn’t all that fond of you before then anyway. I was only around you because minn’da forced me to.”

“Yes, yes, I understand that,” Lyrin said, making another conceding gesture. “But it’s as I said. I’m a better man than I was sixty years ago.” His grin faltered slightly in the wake of her unconvinced glare. “...And, I mean… you said it yourself. It’s not like you have a lot of other options.”

“Lyrin, you were a grown man who agreed to be engaged to a literal toddler,” Anevay frowned. “There isn’t really any coming back from that. Especially not when you spent most of my life telling me and everyone who would listen how excited you were to claim ownership of me. I would rather sleep with a mindless ghoul than ever associate with you ever again. The fact that I’m even talking to you now is sheer curiosity as to whether your claims of being a changed man are even true. I have no intention of entertaining my mother’s deluded plans.”

His crooked smile and faux pleasantry swiftly evaporated in the wake of Anevay’s scathing words. His brow knitted deeply with indignance as he began to sneer. “Oh really?” he scoffed. “You just admitted to being the loneliest woman in all of Silvermoon and you still won’t swallow your pride and be with a man who is offering you companionship? Does it truly matter that much to you when the only alternative is being alone or shaking up with some filth covered brute? Or a literal corpse?”

“Compared to you? Loneliness is practically mercy,” Anevay spat. “Besides, Orc women are quite lovely. And Lady Windrunner? Still the most beautiful creature on Azeroth,” she smirked.

“She’s a corpse!” Lyrin protested, disgust clear as day on his face.

“And still a more pleasant person to be around than you,” Anevay scoffed as she turned to head back the way she came. “Goodbye Lyrin. Next time try to shoot for someone your own age.”

Lyrin balked and blubbered with outrage. His curses and colorful insults fell deaf on her ears. His inane sputtering did him little more than earn him questioning looks as the public wondered who was yelling at the Champion of Quel’Thalas and why. 

It didn’t matter to Anevay. In fact. Very little mattered to her anymore.

* * *

While it had made for a good counterpoint to her stubborn psylosopher and Lyrin, the thought of going to Orgrimmar did not fill Anevay with confidence. Garrosh had just been named Warchief amidst the elemental unrest and she did not like the idea of being under his watch on a permanent basis. Garrosh had proven to be hot-tempered at best, and threatening at worst. She could deal with him easily, as she was the better warrior of the two, but with him now being Warchief that wasn’t so reliable a defense. If he wanted to, he could make her life more miserable than it already was.

So with nowhere she could feasibly go and nothing to distract her, Anevay had been forced to linger in Quel’Thalas, which had ramped up its post-war celebrations to ludicrous degrees. The statue had been finished after a month of preparation and served as a perfectly good reason to never go to Sunfury Spire ever again. But now that it had been completed, Lor’themar was planning a major celebration, complete with parade and public dinner to celebrate the end of the Scourge.

Anevay was expected to attend. She’d been ordered to attend.

She was not going to attend.

She didn’t step out of her apartment at all that day. The sun had barely risen in the sky before the people preemptively began the celebrations. Every cheer she heard was anguish on the ears. The cheery music and fireworks that flooded the streets made her crave an end to it more and more desperately. She had curled into herself, openly weeping against the knees she held close to her face. Hours felt like months as the celebrating just didn’t stop. She had run out of booze to numb the agony and refused to risk going outside for more. She was trapped in her own house, with no means of escape other than to beg for death. 

It was then that she remembered. 

While she may have been out of liquor to drown her woes in, one thing she most certainly did have was rope. 

As soon as the idea was in her head, it was surprisingly easy to follow it to its logical conclusion. She’d tried all month to piece her life back together, but no progress could be made. And it only made her yearn for the life she had before the Fall even more. There was nothing left for her anymore, and it had become so hard just to get out of bed in the morning. 

And that was how she found herself digging through the closet for a rope, her eyes red and puffy from having cried for most of the day.

Eventually, she found it. It was a long and sturdy length of rope. On could easily use this lash together some logs and make a halfway decent raft in a pinch. It would be more than efficient to get the job done. 

As if the fates couldn’t have aligned any more perfectly, the apartment she lived in was on the top floor, meaning she had access to the rafters overhead. Getting the rope over the beam and securing it was simple enough, as was making certain the noose was good and tight. 

She gave it a few test-runs with a bag of metal scraps that weighed about as much as she did, and it held sturdy. But as soon as she knew she was ready to go, she found herself gripped with anxiety. This was it. This was how it ends, she thought. She quietly wondered if anyone would find her, or if she would just hang there until she started to rot. 

It was bound to hurt. She wasn’t high enough to reliably snap her neck, so she was going to end up asphyxiating. Painful way to die. 

Hands trembling, she stepped up onto the ladder and slipped the noose around her neck. She tightened it, and a chill ran up her spine. Danger. Yeah, of course she was in danger, she thought. Suddenly she felt very tired. A desire to sleep flooded her brain. Well, she was certainly about to get a lot of it.

Taking a deep breath, she kicked the ladder out from underneath herself, and felt the rope squeeze tightly around her neck as she fell a few inches. The air flow stopped immediately. Her neck began to burn under the strain of the noose. 

Panic flooded her system. She could hear her pulse suddenly hammering in her ears. Her instincts screamed at her to find a way out of this literal death trap. She ignored them. This death was going to be slow and hellish, but it would soon be worth it. Soon, she wouldn’t feel the pain any longer. She wouldn’t feel the solitude any longer. The anguish, the dejection, the sense of aimlessness, of being without purpose, without friends or family, without something or someone to call home at the end of the day. Soon it would all be past her.

Besides a few choked sobs as her parting groan, she closed her eyes and silently accepted her end.

“Well this is quite the sight. 

Her eyes snapped open, realizing suddenly that she was not alone. 

In the dark room, she could make out a pair of burning red eyes looking at her from the entryway. Through a faint light that shined through a window down the hall, she could make out a silhouette. A silhouette that was familiar enough to recognize, same with the smarmy tone that caught her attention. 

Nathanos was in her house.

Before she could even summon a thought, Nathanos drew his bow and shot at the rope, cutting it and dropping her to the floor. Immediately, the pressure of the noose released and Anevay was coughing and hacking for breath. She couldn’t even get to her feet with her muscles screaming in agony for oxygen. As she reflexively caught her breath, she rubbed her throat and sat up, glaring at Nathanos.

“Nathanos, what are you doing here?!” she demanded. “You hated this place when you were alive, why would you come back now?!”

“Oh, rest assured, I’m here strictly on business, Darkflare,” Nathanos drawled out as he waltzed over to recollect the arrow that landed in the wall behind the coughing elf. “If you think I’ve come here to partake in the celebration of your inflated ego, you are sorely mistaken.” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly part of that celebration,” Anevay rolled her eyes as she stood up. While she’d always liked Nathanos, this was the worst possible time for his ‘unique charm’ as Sylvanas had always put it. “What business involves you coming up here to bother me?”

“The Dark Lady, in her infallible wisdom, has entrusted me with the task of collecting you,” Nathanos explained. “The Forsaken have been tasked with expanding the Horde’s territory within the Eastern Kingdoms and she wants you to be involved.”

“What? Why me?” Anevay raised an eyebrow as she continued rubbing her neck.

“I am not one to try and ascertain the Dark Lady’s reasoning,” Nathanos replied, his voice practically dripping with sarcasm. “But if I were to hazard a guess, it’s because she deems you adequate at stabbing things. Is that answer suitable for you? Or should I try again with smaller words?”

Anevay pressed her fingers to her forehead and growled in exasperation. “It’s been a long day, Nathanos, could you just cut the venom? Just for like… five minutes? Please?”

“I’m willing to give you that five minutes to prepare before I depart,” Nathanos said, turning to walk out the doorway. “I do not intend to stay in this monument to pointless frivolity any longer than I have to.”

Anevay was quiet for a moment as she glanced back at the frayed rope and the noose lying on the ground. She could just refuse and get back to ending herself. It’d be as easy as two little words. And the reflexive refusal was already on her lips.

But… this wasn’t just anyone calling her. If Sylvanas needed a job done, she was going to do it. She owed her too much to refuse.

She grabbed her rucksack, still packed from the return journey from Northrend, and followed Nathanos out the doorway. “I don’t need five minutes to prepare. I’m ready to leave now. I feel the same way about this place as you do.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Nathanos said with a wry grin as he placed the spent arrow back into his quiver. “Let us be off then. It’s quite uncouth to leave the Dark Lady waiting.”

“Of course, Ranger Lord,” Anevay nodded as they descended the stairs of her apartment building. Suddenly, the dejection and misery seemed just a little bit further behind her, and she smiled the first genuine smile she’d had since Northrend.

* * *

“Dark Lady,” Nathanos bowed as he entered the throne room, having told Anevay to wait behind. “Anevay Darkflare has agreed to answer your summons.”  
  
Sylvanas turned from the Apothecary she was addressing to face the approaching Nathanos, Anevay in tow. “Ah, perfect,” she said silkily. 

Anevay looked up at the Banshee Queen as she stood upon the dias of the Throne Room. She was as hauntingly beautiful as she remembered her being in Northrend. Her eyes were as red as blood and burned hotter than any fire. Platinum blonde hair spilled out from within the drawn hood of her cloak, which added an air of dominance to her silhouette. The light plating she wore over her Ranger leathers gleamed pleasantly in the warm lighting of the room. Any among the living would look at the Dark Lady and feel the fear of death run coldly up their spine. 

Anevay, however, felt soothed by her presence. 

“Champion Darkflare,” Sylvanas greeted with a slight incline of her head. “I thank you for answering the summon on such short notice.”

“As if I could refuse a summons from you, Lady Sylvanas,” Anevay bowed respectfully. “Whatever it is you need, I’m at your service.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sylvanas said, a smile gracing her dark lips. “Because we have quite the task ahead of us.”

She nodded to the Apothecary beside her, prompting the robed woman to bow deeply and retreat from the room. Soon it was just her, Anevay and the Dark Rangers who encircled the Throne Room. “Our new Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream has tasked the Forsaken with expanding Horde territory by launching an assault against the human kingdom of Gilneas.”

“The Greymane Wall has been breached I assume?” Anevay raised an eyebrow.

Sylvanas raised one right back. “The entire world has been torn asunder. Have you not noticed? Were you hiding in a bunker for the last month?”

“Um… actually yes,” Anevay said sheepishly. “I kinda was.”

A look of perplexion crossed Sylvanas’ features before she turned to Nathanos, silently asking for an explanation. 

The Ranger Lord merely shrugged. 

Sylvanas sighed before returning her attention back to Anevay. “Yes. There has been a world wide calamity that, among other things, has breached the Greymane wall. We are presented with a generous window of opportunity to launch an offensive on the kingdom before they can repair the wall in any significant capacity. However, we will need to utilize every advantage at our disposal. That includes you.”

“Very well, Lady Sylvanas. If it’s Gilneas you want, then I’ll be sure to deliver it to you,” Anevay said with a small nod. She stood up slightly straighter at that declaration. “How am I to proceed?”

“Commander Belmont has been tasked with drawing a plan of attack,” Sylvanas began to explain. “We have prepared a command center in Silverpine Forest from where we will proceed with the campaign. Nathanos will escort you there where you will report to Belmont.”

Anevay smiled and nodded again. “Then I’ll set off immediately. I’ll protect the Forsaken as if they were my own kin, Dark Lady.”

Sylvanas felt her grin widening. “Well in due time, they very well might be,” she said with a huff of laughter.

Anevay cocked a brow. “I’m sorry?”

“You will see soon enough,” Sylvanas clarified. “Nathanos, I trust you have transport at the ready for High Command?”

“Of course, my Queen,” Nathanos said with a bow. “Darkflare, this way.”

Anevay turned to follow Nathanos out the door and back into the central Undercity. When she reached it, however, she stopped. She turned back to Sylvanas and said “Lady Sylvanas?”

Sylvanas, who had returned her attention to field reports, looked up and cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

Anevay suddenly felt herself lost for words. She knew she wanted to say something but the specifics seemed to vanish from her mind the moment she had the Dark Lady’s attention. All she could manage to squeeze out was “...It’s good to see you,” before she turned and followed Nathanos into the corridor.

“How suave,” Nathanos deadpanned as they traversed down the long walkway. “Truly, it’s a wonder how you’re still single.”

“Yeah, how are you doing on that front again?” Anevay asked as she swatted Nathanos on the back of his head. “I was engaged. Twice. How are you faring?”

Nathanos grumbled, mending the mess Anevay made of his hair with that swat. “Are you sure it wasn’t tragedy that drove you apart from your beloved?” he inquired in an icy tone. “Or did she die to escape your intolerable sass?”

“You can thank the Dark Lady’s teachings for that,” Anevay spat. “I came back looking for Alina, but she turned me away like I was a particularly revolting hound.”

Nathanos cocked a brow as the two of them made their way to the Trade Quarter. “You say that the Dark Lady is to blame, and yet you don’t appear to hold it against her,” he mused. “Curious.”

“...I don’t have a grudge to settle, if that’s what you think,” Anevay sighed, waving to an abomination who had been waving to her.

Nathanos narrowed his eyes slightly, making a noncommittal noise in his throat before focusing his gaze forward. 

Back in the throne room, Sylvanas was… puzzled. She had sent out multiple requests for reinforcements throughout the Horde, and all of her summons had been met with either refusals or silence. Orgrimmar had sent a token force, but they were comprised of drunken sea dogs and little else. When she sent Nathanos to reach out to Anevay, she had expected a similar refusal.

But no. Anevay had answered her summons immediately. And had in fact dismissed the notion of refusing as if it were ridiculous.

To say that such a thing perplexed the Dark Lady was an understatement. 

It was true that Anevay worked very closely to the Forsaken during the Northrend Campaign, assisting them as they combated everything from the Alliance, the traitor Varimathras, the San’layn and even the Lich King himself. However, she had assessed that as Anevay having a similar taste for vengeance as she and her fellow undead. Therefore, it stood to reason that her ‘kinship’ with them would end with Arthas’ death before she moved on to greener pastures. 

Instead, she would go on to answer Sylvanas’ summons so swiftly, that she literally arrived with the messenger. That was perhaps the last thing she was expecting. 

The Banshee Queen sat at her throne, her expression pensive as claws on her gauntlets drummed against the stone of the arm. She silently pondered the reason, the angle, for Anevay’s swift response. A knit formed between her brow as a logical deduction seemed to allude her. According to news from Silvermoon, Anevay was revered like a Goddess for her victory over the Lich King. For what reason would she be so swift to depart from that? And what was that she said about a bunker?

She made a note to ask Nathanos exactly where and in what state he had found the Champion, her curiosity now overriding everything else she needed to focus on. Everything about this seemed to defy all of her expectations. While satisfied to have at least some reinforcements, by rights she simply shouldn’t have had any at all.

_‘As if I could refuse a summons from you, Lady Sylvanas. Whatever it is you need, I’m at your service.’_

It was those words that stuck with her most of all, though she did her damndest not to let that show in the moment. The way Anevay said that and the way she looked at Sylvanas when she said it. It was as if the girl was still one of her Farstriders back in Quel’thalas. As if nothing had changed. 

Was it simply a matter of nostalgia? Perhaps. She knew that the young elf had attempted, and failed, to reconnect with her lost loved ones who became Forsaken. Has she been unable to move on from that? It was certainly possible, but it still left Sylvanas perplexed as to what to do about it. Sure it would serve her well with this up and coming assault against Gilneas, but what about after that?

She had much to ponder.


End file.
